


The Scattered Folk

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amras assumed to have died at Losgar, Dagor Bragollach, Gen, although it's not actually significant here but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Dagor Bragollach, Thargelion falls and Caranthir joins his remaining people to his brother's in Ossiriand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scattered Folk

I patrol the muddy riverbank nervously, trying to squint through the gathering gloom into the forest. Around me, people are pitching tents, gathering wood and building fires, trying to get the damp sticks to catch. I stare back into the trees. I do not like this place. The day is overcast and oppressive, and a thin drizzling mist falls on my upturned face. The trees  whisper with the rain, and all other sounds fall flat and dead in the damp air. It will be dark soon, and the night is dangerous, now more than ever. If I had my way, we would not have stopped here at all, but even I must acknowledge that we cannot travel through the night, not on this terrain. I look around at the band I travel with, a mixture of men, women and a few children, haggard and worn-looking to the last one. These are the survivors of my people, or at least some of them. I can only hope that more still live and are scattered through the woods of Ossiriand, but truly I do not know.

Suddenly there is a cry from behind me, and I whirl around, at once alert. One of the scouts has drawn his bow and is aiming into the trees. I run to his side, loosening my sword in its sheath, although I do not draw it.

“Lord Amrod… I heard… something moving in the trees.”

I strain my ears for the merest rustle. “Where?” My mind works through the possibilities. Over the last few days we have been joined by refugees, Noldor, Nandor, Þindarand every shade in between. Most ragged, half-starved and wounded, too many on the edge of death. But they are not the only presence in the forests; not two days ago we were attacked by orcs, with too many losses. I grit my teeth, wondering if we could survive another such encounter, minor skirmish though it would have been counted in the past.

The people around us have noticed our alertness now; punctuated by the quiet sounds of weapons being drawn surreptitiously. They know well enough, from bitter experience, that to panic in moments like this is to invite slaughter. At first our host was at least three times the size. I feel their eyes on me as I stare into the dim forest through the rain, which is growing heavier now. I catch a glimpse of movement, a flash of something pale, and I draw my sword. I advance cautiously forward. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Nothing. Then I see a glint of metal, and raise my sword in alarm, as a whisper runs through the people. I lunge towards the movement, but suddenly I find someone gripping my arm, and whispering close to my ear. “Pityo! Pityo, it’s all right. It’s just me.”

I turn and suddenly relief is washing over me, as I am looking into my brother’s face. “Moryo! You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”  
His mouth quirks up at one side. “Actually I think I can imagine.” I glance behind him, where faces are appearing out of the trees, pale and dirty and frightened. He follows my gaze, gesturing towards them, a frown appearing on his face. “Thargelion has fallen.” I open my mouth to speak but he continues before I get the chance. “I have a group of survivors with me, and we are a desperate and sorry band. Can we join yours here for tonight? We will be safer together.”

I nod grimly. “That would certainly be best.” I turn back to my people. “There is no danger” I declare, projecting my voice out over the little clearing by the riverbank. “The followers of the Lord Caranthir, my brother, will stay with us tonight. I would beg you to share with them all the supplies you have, and treat them as your own kinsfolk.”

A ripple of relief runs through the watchers on both sides. Weapons are sheathed and figures begin to appear from out of the trees. There are many wounded, and burns seem to be the most common injury. The sight of burned flesh makes my head spin and my stomach clench, even after so long. I notice for the first time that Moryo’s leg is tied in a dirty, blood-stained strip of cloth that looks like it has been torn from someone’s shirt, one greve missing from his armour. His face, normally ruddy, is paler than I have ever seen it, under a layer of grime. He walks with a slight limp, but shows no other signs of pain.

“You’re hurt!” I exclaim. “What happened?”

He grimaces, looking down at his leg. “What do you think happened? It’s not serious, in fact I’m one of the lucky ones. Thargelion was overrun by orcs, and we fled into the woods.” His hands ball into fists and his eyes burn, face twisting with rage. “The lands around Lake Helevorn were burned, by that thrice-accursed dragon. We could not hold them.”

My heart sinks as I watch the activity around the camp, taking in the survivors, many of whom are now having their wounds bandaged. “Glaurung broke through the Gap? Where is Macalaurë? Is he…” I swallow apprehensively. “Were his defences breached?” A new thought strikes me. “And what of Maitimo? Surely Himring cannot have fallen too?”

“If Himring had fallen we would know” says Moryo, but he does not look entirely convinced. “And we would probably be dead by now anyway. Up there, Nelyo will outlast us all. Macalaurë…” His face pinches with worry. “…I don’t know. There has been no news.”

We stand in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder. Moryo peers at a group that may be a family, their skin and hair the shades of hazelnut brown that indicate mixed Noldorin and Nandorin ancestry. Then he looks at me, plucking at my green, Nandorin-style leather armour. He smiles wryly. “You know, I always got the feeling that Curvo didn’t approve of your cheerful adoption of local customs, but now I myself have never been more grateful for it. Maybe I should take up wearing green too, if I’m going to be hiding out here for any length of time.”  
I nod. “It might just save your life. Besides, they’re good people, as I’ve said before. Decent and down-to-earth and more use in the forest than even Tyelko, I sometimes think.”

“I wouldn’t tell him that though, if I were you.”

“No.”

We lapse back into silence. Moryo grits his teeth. “I just wish there was something we could do!” He finally bursts out. “Rather than hiding here like cowards. If my people had the strength, I would ride out and hit back at our enemy. I hate skulking in the woods like a frightened animal. I hate it.”

I sigh. “We have little choice.”

He simply scowls, folding his arms. “I know.” He stares back into the clearing, looking pained. “Everything we’ve built!” He bursts out suddenly. “Just… gone. I didn’t think it would be that fragile.”

“None of us did” I reply, uncomfortably. “But our people” I look around the clearing. “I wouldn’t precisely call them fragile. I think we may survive yet, Moryo.”

He laughs bitterly. “Here’s hoping, Pityo. Where are you headed, anyway?”

“We are taking a long and convoluted route to Amon Ereb. The hill should be more easily defensible, at least that’s the idea. But first we need to throw off the pursuit.” My face twists into a smile. “As you’ve just proven though, we’re not as well hidden as I would like.”

“Perhaps. Although I’d still trust my people’s chances better with you and yours near. I think we’ll stay with you, for a while at least.”

I smile, clasping his forearm and pulling him into a quick, rough hug, before he can protest. “I’m glad you’re here too, brother.” 


End file.
